Chez Rose offers a sort of hospitality that feels centuries old, but when done well, will never be old hat
Chez Rose has just appeared on Pollen Street, Mayfair, but to the casual passerby, it looks as if it could have been established in 1974. This is, of course, poudre aux yeux; until recently, this was Jason Atherton’s Little Social. Yet, with some strategically placed tables en terrasse, vintage mirrors, thoughtfully scattered doilies and, later, bread baskets, and what you have is France in the eye of the British beholder. Not the full ’Allo ’Allo-ification, but that elegant, sexy pastiche of everyday French dining that adult Brits gobble up like school kids devouring Milka chocolate. Crepes Suzette, poulet rôti with vin jaune and morels, dover sole meuniere with Menton lemon… Ooh là là. If you can’t get into Bouchon Racine in Farringdon, go here instead.
Chez Rose is by Spencer Metzger, whose CV is an embarrassment of edible riches: The Ritz and Row on 5 were his culinary sandpit, until Chez Rose allowed him to model a whole place in tribute to his late grandmother, Rosemary. There are framed photos of the Metzger family around the room, and some items from her house, if diners would stop stealing them. Rosemary wasn’t French, and neither is Metzger, but within one mouthful of the first snack of red prawn and tomato on a crisp crostini, zinging with a mouthy lemon, which arrived on a pretty doily, it feels churlish to quibble. In fact, if Metzger’s non-Frenchness upsets you, it just leaves more 70% chocolate souffle with vanilla ice-cream for the rest of us.
